Two Different Captains
by KrossAmongst
Summary: Oh Alfred, has your young heart been stolen by a crotchety and crippled Brit? Human AU
1. Pitter Patter

**So, this thingy has been going through TONS of edits, so bear with it please! It's for your benefit!**

**...**

Alfred strolled into a small general store in the crook of an alleyway. It seemed inviting enough, and it emitted that feel of rightness, like it was supposed to be there. Matthew, his half-brother, was close on his heels. They were touring Europe, their first stop being England. A crotchety looking man with bushy eyebrows and a deep set frown sat behind the counter, his shoulders slumped and his eyes set in a glare. Alfred was intrigued by this man, and decided to ask him of something. He didn't know what, but before he could think about it he found himself walking up to the counter.

Realizing this, he frantically looked around for an answer. He spotted the top shelf behind the clerk. A mint-in-box Captain Britain action figure was up there. He could feel his eyes widen and his breath escape him as he looked at it. It was a limited edition of Captain Britain. He never really liked other superheroes besides the American ones he'd grown up with, but he loved collecting old ones. He rushed up to the counter frantically and asked to see it.

The older looking coot sighed and slipped down from his stool. Alfred heard his shuffling with a rhythmic 'thunk' with every shuffle. While the clerk's back was turned, he noticed that he had a cane. And that he was using it. Properly. Alfred gasped and apologized, saying that it wouldn't be too much of a bother, but the Brit simply ignored him. Instead of going through painstaking work, he simply pulled a high up lever with his cane, leaning heavily on his good leg. The shelves shook slightly before rotating down towards him, older shelves disappearing at the bottom and new ones replacing the others at the top. He took his cane down and hobbled over to the toy, picked it up, and shuffled back to the counter, sliding back onto his stool.

Alfred slowly took the action figure, sliding it across the counter before picking it up and inspecting it. He glanced over the top of the box to see the coot looking at him expectantly, his scowl permanently stuck to his face, like a bulldog's. He felt his cheeks grow hot and he cleared his throat, looking back at the toy. He felt to embarrassed!

"Twenty-two pounds and eighty-four pence." He growled. Alfred jumped slightly and blinked.

"Excuse me?" He said, caught off guard.

The Brit sighed and rolled his eyes. "Twenty-two pounds and eighty-four pence." He repeated, slower, as if he was trying to humiliate Alfred slightly. Alfred stuck his hands in his pockets, but coming up with only American money. He chuckled nervously and held out two twenties, his face hot with embarrassment. "W-will this do?"

The coot scowled at him and roughly shot back "You think I'll take that? What good does _that_ do _me_?" He asked, spitting the words. Alfred gulped.

"Uh, how about I write you an IOU, you can hold this for me, and I can come up with the change. O-or I could write you a check... Or..." He trailed off and stared into the man's eyes, completely flustered. _How stupid _was _he?_

Just then Matthew came to the rescue and lightly put the required money on the counter. "I think this will do?" His voice was slightly above a whisper.

The coot nodded and sweeped the money towards him. "That's about right, sir. See," He directed his angry scowl to Alfred, "things are smoother when you have some sense."

Alfred took a second before it clicked in his mind, and tried to bite back a giggle.

The coot had a tick after Alfred to think about his words. "No pun intended," He mumbled, putting the money in the register. "Good day."

.

Alfred decided that he would visit again as he walked out of the shop, a small bell he hadn't noticed before tinkling as they left. He couldn't stop rolling the action figure over and over in his hands, inspecting it greatly. Matthew could only look at his brother with worry etching his similar face, the other mesmerized with that simple toy.

In their room at a nearby inn, Alfred plopped down onto his bed and stared at the toy. The way that man scowled at him, it was like he wanted him to be obliterated! _Jeez,_ Alfred thought, _but his eyes..._

Matthew, who had gone to the bathroom, came out of the facility room to find the American passed out on his bed, Captain Britain hugged tightly to his chest. He looked so peaceful, lying there, drooling on his new toy. Alfred's soft-spoken brother smiled at the sight, decided that they would get lunch later. Instead, he turned on the television and muted it, keeping an eye on the weather.

Alfred kept denying hugging and slightly drooling on his new action figure's packaging as they walked down the cobblestone street to a nearby diner of which they could enjoy a splendid little brunch. As they walked in, Matthew could see all the heads snap towards them as Alfred obliviously continued his obnoxious rant.

They sat down in a booth at the front of the diner, the window overlooking their table. The theme of the diner seemed to be light colors with dark wood walls, though with the grey clouds overhead and the gloomy faces, the light colors added to the drabness. People dotted the shop, their dark clothes making them blend with the wood walls and accents. Compared, the American seemed to stand out in his bright blue sweatshirt and ratty jeans. Matthew was no better, a red jacket over his white t-shirt and equally torn jeans. A waiter with a light blue shirt and white jeans under a black apron came over quietly and handed them two menus. Matthew quietly thanked the thickly browed gentleman and Alfred skimmed the menu, looking at all the different food.

After both looking through, they flagged the orange-red haired waiter and ordered their food. The polite and obviously peeved waiter nodded to them as he finished taking their order and took it behind the counter, snagging it up so the chef could see.

As they waited, Alfred went on for two minutes about some hero nonsense until someone hollered "Would you just _belt_ _up_?" from the far corner of the room. Alfred shut his trap and sat frozen for a few seconds, his back straight. He slowly glared over his shoulder to see who'd bossed him. His eyes fell onto a red leather booth in the back, an all to familiar scowling face looking at him just as their food was served.

Alfred couldn't help but smile.

He jumped up from his booth, stirring a few from their meal as their plates jumped, and ran towards the usually avoided man. "Oh hello! Thanks for yesterday, big lesson ya know, and oh, how are ya?" the American casually spluttered out. Matthew walked briskly over after straightening the skewed dishes.

"He drooled on it." The Canadian whispered to the Englishman, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Alfred. The merchant looked appalled, snapping his head towards Alfred and gaping. Only a few seconds before setting his scowl back in place and jabbing his cane on the unsuspecting American's foot.

"Ow!" Alfred yelped as he comically jumped and grabbed his injured foot. "I think you broke my fucking toe!" He yowled.

"I don't approve of your bloody swearing." The Englishman replied matter-of-factly. He then places his hands gracefully and pushed on the table, helping himself up and snatching his cane, he exited. He hobbled away with what seemed to be a high amount of worn dignity.

Both foreigners followed him out with their eyes before turning to the waiter, who took their order, behind the counter. He just shrugged, running a hand through his fiery hair. Alfred held up a hand consciously and weakly voiced "I'll pay for his—"

"It isn't necessary." The waiter cut in, going to clean a glass.

"But..." Alfred felt bad not paying for his mistake.

"I insist." Was all the waiter said, and it ended the dispute.

After they'd eaten and the odd encounter at the diner, Alfred kept them both busy with sight seeing. He would run ahead of his brother, shouting and pointing things out like a small child would. Matthew was running out of breath to heave as he ran to catch up with his athletic brother.

"Al... Fred!" Matthew sighed loudly, trying to inhale more sweet oxygen, having finally caught up with his brother. Alfred was as stuck as stone, staring at something in the sky. The heels of Matthew's hands were digging into his knees as he was keeled over, breathing heavily. Alfred only kept staring, ignoring Matthew completely.

"Alfred!" Matthew lightly patted him on the shoulder after standing up again. He followed the mesmerized American's gaze to the icon of London—the commonly mistaken Clock Tower.

"Alfred, it's just Clock To-"

"Wow. Sh." Matthew had been shushed by his brother, a cold finger pressed onto his lips.

"B-"

"Sh."

They stood there, like complete idiots, staring at Clock Tower for at least a half hour. Pigeons started to collect around their feet, pecking at the cracks in the street, and sometimes at Matthew's feet, but they both stared blatantly on at the monument.

Suddenly Alfred leapt into the air, kicking his legs and fist pumping as he did. "That was _awesome!_" He yelled.

"Alfred," Matthew started, "Please calm down..."

"But that was so—ooh! What's that?" He quickly ran and disappeared again. Matthew sighed and continued tracking down his over enthusiastic and impulsive brother. Unsurprisingly, he lost his unecessarily ecstatic brother.

.

After a half hour of searching around for him, Matthew decided to go back to their room. He would come back, wouldn't he? Sighing as he unlocked the door to their room, he closed it quietly behind him and sat on the edge of the bed, his mind reeling with worry. If he waited here, of course Alfred would come back! Alfred always did.

Rain quietly pattered against the window, which made poor Matthew's brows bend like branches on a fir tree with too much snow weighing them down. He worried deeply for Alfred, and hoped desperately that he didn't get soaked to the bone. It would be horrible if he got sick his first time in England.


	2. Church Chatter

Alfred stood in the archway to an old church, waiting out the rain. Having forgotten to check the weather, he cursed himself again. Matthew floated into his mind, worry etching his face as he near-shouted _Alfred! Where _were _you?_ _I almost got the cops involved!_ The American tried to shake out the pit of anxiety forming in his stomach by going inside. If anything, his parents had been religious.

The church had a musty smell, one that was overpowered by the calming scent of frankincense and myrrh, combined with softly burning vanilla scented and colored candles. It seemed very authentic. The smell, the dark wood pews, the long white strip of cloth leading up to the alter down the front row, and the burgundy carpet that was underneath it all. That and the huge carving of the Lord's son, nailed to the cross. He hung at the mouth of an indent in the wall's face tens of feet above the ground. Just above him was a circular stained glass window of Mother Mary and the angel Raphael speaking.

Alfred wandered down the side of the pain aisle to the second-front pew. Kneeling and making the sign of the cross, he slid into the pew. Letting his mind wander, he thought about his parents, his friends, his regrets, and his most cherished moments. Absently, he rubbed the old velvet cushion of the pew, settling to admiring the window and the carving of Jesus. He felt safe, comforted. Like he was one of a lamb reunited with his flock.

The spoken of American was jolted from his thoughts when he heard a creak from a hidden side door of the church. Voices faded into the room and bounced off the medieval stone walls.

"Brother, this isn't something to worry yourself over," consoled a soft, soothing voice with a weird accent, something on the edge of British. "God is trying to give you a sign. Let come what may."

An all too familiar growl countered "But brother, what if I don't want this sign?" Worry—fear—took the edge out of the shopkeeper's harsh tone. Alfred was frozen to his spot. _What could they be talking about?_

They came into Alfred's view. First he noticed the taller pastor with his modest black outfit. He had mahogany hair that was a decent length. His side part forced his bangs to be neatly swept to the side, over his pale forehead, slightly. Like the shopkeeper, he had captivatingly green eyes, a bit more yellow green, and thick eyebrows. Sadly they couldn't contend with his brother's.

Next, he noticed the shopkeeper himself, a worried frown set into his fittingly angelic face. Scruffy blond bangs, plastered down by his grey newsboy cap, hid his wooly caterpillars. He leaned heavily on his cane, his other arm occupied by holding his heavy, equally grey overcoat. The smaller man's tan dress pants were decently coordinated with his dark, hunter green sweater-vest and off-white dress shirt.

The pastor's calm and unsurprised eyes slowly slid to Alfred. A new, gentle smile tugged at the holy man's lips. "Why hello," he voiced Alfred's presence. The shopkeeper's worn face snapped to look at the foreigner, his face showing surprise. The pastor's accent sounded Irish, because of the melody and stretch on certain sounds, but it also sounded British because of the precise pronunciation. All Alfred could process was the pair of astounded green orbs on him.

"Uh, hello." The American dumbly tried, his world spinning like a top in zero-gravity. He could feel himself standing as the handsome pastor approached.

The two shook hands, and Alfred aptly decided that the pastor was nice—trustworthy. "I'm Pastor Owen," the holy man introduced himself as. The baffled grouch shook himself from his shock and made his way over. Alfred could see the questions flying through his mind as he came to his destination and looked up at the able-bodied man.

Pastor Owen gestured with an open and heaven-turned palm to Eyebrows. "This is my brother, Arthur." His calm tone wasn't doing anything for Alfred's frazzled nerves. Stiffly, he held out his hand. In return, Arthur gingerly took it with his coat-hanger's hand. "Name's Alfred." He informed them, hoping Eyebrows didn't jump down his throat.

There was a nod from the Brit, and a twitch from a corner of his mouth. "So, I finally get a name." He replied, his usual mood set aside. Eyebrows' voice was calm, relaxing, like someone on an audiobook. Alfred realized he was being drawn in to Arthur, like a moth to a porch light. Also, he realized he didn't mind all too much. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.

Suddenly Alfred saw their hands were parting, and the butterflies in his stomach were returning. Pastor Owen seemed pleased enough by their progress. He had folded his hands in front of him, adding to his air of politeness and modesty. "Alfred, you look a bit chilled. Would you like some tea?" Interjected the pastor, bringing both of their attentions back to reality.

Alfred's eyes darted quickly to the mildly peeved Arthur to Owen. Nodding, he answered "Yes, Pastor Owen. I would." The silly American could get divine forgiveness later. Currently, he had a Brit and a brother to have tea with.

.

The cottage Alfred had been led to was very small and homey. Most of the furniture was made out of wood, and so were the floors. Sitting in the kitchen, he was awash with the yellow walls boxing him in. He thought the arched window was a pleasant touch, it showed him the outside world, which was grey and looming, like a cat about to lay on your face. The bushes that were planted right in front of the window and all along that side of the house thrashed with the wind. Alfred could see the top of it dancing as the wind battered it around. A real doozy outside. Pastor Owen was standing by the stove, waiting for the kettle to scream. Arthur had gone upstairs to rest for a little while; Pastor Owen had insisted that he did. Alfred's wandering eyes found a framed painting of a white farm house that was bathed in sunshine. Almost not seeing it at first, Alfred saw a small boy dashing across the lawn, a colorful ball flying across the air.

"I see you've noticed my mother's painting." The pastor calmly observed, walking over to the painting and taking it off it's hook.

"O-oh, yes. I mean, it's really good," Shaken out of his thinking again by the kind pastor, who came over and sat down with the painting; across from Alfred. Fondly he looked at the painting, running his finger over the glass.

"She loved to paint. Especially landscapes." He said quietly, his eyes coming up to meet Alfred's. "Arthur used to paint."

This, caught Alfred's attention. "Really?" He said, blinking twice, in amazement. The thought of Arthur painting a masterpiece was almost humorous, until he thought about the face he saw at the church. It was so serene, almost happy, it made it seem believable. "What did he like to paint?"

"People. He loved to paint people." There was a hint of remorse in his voice. "Actually, mother only painted the landscape. Arthur later painted the boy and the ball." a sad smile grace itself onto Pastor Owen's features. The whistling kettle brought both men out of their thoughts. The pastor set the painting down gently and went to finish the tea. Leaving their tea to steep, he came back and sat down. Owen pursed his lips slightly, looking at Alfred, as if he was working a puzzle. Alfred swallowed thickly, his own eyes searching for any hints to what he was thinking.

The pastor pushed the painting toward Alfred, giving him a hard look. The American's eyes flipped down to look at the painting, then back up to meet the stare. "Keep him safe, Alfred." The words were soft, almost a whisper, but the emotion behind them made them hard as stone.

His eyebrows crumpled together in confusion as he looked at Owen. "Excuse me, Pastor, I don't think I understand." He said in all honesty. Who could?

The brother straightened in his chair, his grave look softening. "Alfred, my boy, I see what you're feeling. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this equation." He flashed the foreigner an amused smirk as the other's jaw dropped, then dribbled like a ball, trying to form a sentence. Alfred's eyes looked at the clean yellow rectangle left by the painting, and then to the painting itself. His heart decided for him immediately. Ocean blue eyes met pasture green ones.

"I will."

That seemed to be all that Owen needed. With a nod, he stood and took the painting, hanging it back on the wall. Looking over his shoulder at Alfred, he spoke with less of a foreshadowing tone "Mother would've approved of you."

To the young American, it seemed out of the blue, but it also seemed fitting. Clearing his throat softly, he replied "I'm sure she would have. She sounded like a wonderful woman."

Owen tweaked the frame so it covered the bright rectangle once more. "Ian might try to kill you, though. He's not as open to homosexuality like I am." The statement made the American pale a shade or two. "I-is that so, Pastor Owen?" He couldn't keep the fear from the edges of his sentence.

The pastor made his way across the kitchen and looked out the sink's overlooking window at the storm. "Yep. He's a bit of a drunk, too. Just like our other brother, Liam. Liam works at the diner by Arthur's shop."

For some reason, the fiery haired waiter popped into Alfred's mind at the mention of a diner. He shook away the thought for now. "Is there anyone else I should watch out for?" He asked, sarcasm tainting his words.

A hum passed Owen's closed lips as he thought. Grabbing the two cups and bringing them over to the table, he shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Chloe, our sister, would probably be ecstatic that someone dared to try with Arthur."

A rustle and a loud thump upstairs made both of them look up at the ceiling. They both heard the synced footsteps and cane thump as Eyebrows moved around upstairs. Looking at each other, Owen gave Alfred a toothy grin. "Well, it sounds as if your dragon is awake, O brave knight." He announced playfully to the only souls in the room. Alfred could feel his cheeks heat up and his hands start to sweat. The holy man saw Alfred's discomfort and clapped him on the back, laughing as he did so. "Oh don't be so worried! It'll go great." Alfred didn't believe Owen's reassurance, but nodded anyway. Someone was on his side for once, and he wasn't going to push that power away.

Both of them drank their tea patiently as they listened to Arthur make his way down the stairs. He entered the room and looked between the two, then out to the window, with his brows showing his confusion. Putting two and two together, the confusion and possible rage subsided as he came into the kitchen and sat down at the end of the table. Arthur hung his cane on the back of the chair and looked to his brother. "May I see the paper?" He said calmly enough, his brother looking at him as he took a drop of his tea. Setting his cup down, he nodded and went to retrieve it from the parlor room. Eyebrows then turned his attention to the newcomer. "Liking my brother's hospitality?"

Alfred put down his own cup, even though he was just about to drink some. "Uh, yes. He's very kind."

"He's been bred to be kind." The Englishman shot back bitterly, folding his weaker leg over his stronger. Arthur held up a hand, level with his shoulder, as he heard his brother's footsteps returning. Owen put the newspaper in the offered hand and walked back over to the counter, fetching the third teacup. Walking back, he sat down and slid the cup across the table. It glided smoothly into the smaller's waiting hand. Giving the papers a single shake to open it, and doing so successfully, he began to read.

It was odd, but it also felt very normal.

**...**

**So, I hope you guys thought this was better! I'm still working through some difficulties in the plot. If you spot any issues, please tell me—don't yell at me! I understand the chapters are pretty short, so I'll be beefing them up in the future. Again, if you see any weird things like ".S", I probably know about it. The issues are mainly about facts. Luckily we haven't hit the language issue, which I'm hoping to avoid. Anyway, please Read and Review!**

**And whoa, I feel guilty about all the changes I'm probably putting you guys through! Please, stick with it!**


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